


Eighteen

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Series: Birthday Bird [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Batfamily Feels, Grief/Mourning, Jason Todd Birthday Week, Jason-Centric, Multi, jtbw2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 05:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: Alfred knows this August 16th will be much, much harder than the past two.





	Eighteen

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature, because I do consider grief to be a quite heavy, painful situation. It is a Jason centric fic, despite him not being physically present here.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, regardless. :)

Alfred knows _this_ August 16th will be much, much harder than the past two.

Usually, for this day there was a routine (the same routine as for April 27th, basically). Batman would return from the previous night’s patrol in the early morning hours, his torment having already started. He wouldn’t speak but a few essential words, before taking a shower and instantly heading to bed. He would roll around in the sheets, desperately trying to get his eyelids to shut. Maybe he’d even manage to make it happen for an entire hour. In any case, he would quit trying five hours later. Bruce Wayne would emerge and would immediately get dressed in one random suit before heading downstairs. He’d never get breakfast and would deny any glance at the breakfast nooks.

Ever since Jason Todd had walked into their lives, Bruce had made a habit of getting up earlier, taking breakfast with the boy before Jason left for school. This alone was evidence of how seriously he was taking his new responsibility over the boy, since early morning wake ups had never been something he favored.

This had instantly stopped, since…

In any case. Now, it’s just one black coffee while standing by the door. He takes five or six aggressive sips, mutters a rough goodbye, and then heads straight to his office. He returns much later than usual, around ten, maybe.

_What would you like for supper, Master Bruce?_

_I’m fine Alfred. I had a sandwich earlier_, he would lie.

Cave, right away.

_So many open cases._

_Of course, sir._

He’d dress up, gear up, get in the car and head to the rooftops by eleven, at most. He’d never answer any call, unless he was absolutely certain it was an emergency. He’d spend the entire night out there. Working. Hunting. Beating. Anything to get his mind off of that day. Of everything it meant.

Alfred would find him back in the cave by dawn, a wreck of a human being. Huge dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped, and maybe demonstrating a few new bruises. Exhausted, at a point where he’d barely be able to move even his eyelashes. Alfred would help him out of the gear without a single comment. He’d force him to swallow a glass of orange juice, maybe some water too, and then would usher him to his bed, where Bruce would drift off almost immediately this time. He would sleep through the entire day following that. He’d wake up by late afternoon, and neither of them would speak a single word regarding the night before.

Problem is… this year, he _couldn’t_ do that.

Bruce was injured, and on recovery. It was only one week ago that his teammates had brought him back home in critical condition, after a business with the League. He’d lost a great deal of blood, and possessed various bruises, one heavy hematoma, and one broken rib. Which meant that, despite his protests, he would take another two weeks off both his work and nocturnal activities, at the very least. And _this_ meant that he had to spend that day at home. Doing nothing.

Yes. This would be harsh. Harsh and painful. Alfred knew.

* * *

Morning goes by… relatively mildly. Bruce takes his pills without complaint, and actually exchanges a few words with him. Alfred faces trouble making him accept breakfast, but he eventually manages him to have at least a few buttered toasts.

Bruce stays in bed after that and doesn’t talk much. He has paperwork sprawled all around him. He’s seemingly focused on that, but once or twice, when Alfred returned to the room to check if he needed anything, he’d caught him starring at the void with a vacant expression, a pale face and dead eyes.

At some point, shortly after lunch time, Bruce asks where Tim is, with nothing sort of abrupt agony in his tone. Alfred reminds him that Master Timothy happens to be at Space Camp -which Alfred couldn’t be more grateful about. Bruce looks disoriented for one more second, before he eventually nods in subtle relief, his expression then turning back to stern and serious.

Alfred tries to take a breath. Tries to contain himself. Tries not to think too hard about what today means. Tries to clench his teeth when, the next time he walks into the room, Bruce doesn’t even acknowledge his presence, far too lost into the picture of the frame he has on his bedside table; himself and Jason, just out of the manor. He had his arms wrapped around the boy, and he was seemingly trying to get away, but his whole face was bright with laughter. Taken at Jason’s fifteenth birthday.

His last birthday.

_It’s just one day,_ Alfred tells himself, with a heart too heavy to lift anymore. _It will pass._

* * *

It’s late afternoon, and Bruce is not in his room. He’s not in his bathroom, he’s not in his study, and clearly not in the cave either, since Alfred had just come up from down there.

Passing by a window on the upper floor, he notices a figure far away, at the yard of the family mausoleum.

Alfred’s breath catches. He immediately heads downstairs and unhangs two raincoats from the closet by the door. He puts one himself and then exits the house, rushing into the late summer storm, through cool wind and sharp rain.

* * *

_ Jason Peter Wayne-Todd_

_Beloved Son_

_AUG. 16, 1996_

_APR. 27, 2011_

Bruce, still in his bedtime sweatpants and t-shirt, soaked to the bone, is hunched in front of the tombstone, his forehead lightly touching its top, his eyes closed. One of his hands is clutching at the cold stone tightly, to the point that his knuckles have turned white. In his other one, a handful of wet soil from the ground beneath.

Alfred feels his insides curling up in a tight coil as he enters through the bared gate and stands beside him within seconds, wrapping the second raincoat around him the best he can, pulling up the hood as well.

“Sir,” he says softly, one hand tightening over his shoulder. “We need to go back inside now.”

Bruce remains as still and motionless as the statues of the archangels standing by the gate.

“A little longer,” he says after quite a while, and despite the heavy hoarseness of his voice, his tone is that of the eight-year-old boy Alfred had officially taken under his wing thirty years ago.

“No, sir. Now. If you please.”

Bruce draws one breath inside. It takes about a minute for him to comply, letting Alfred pull him to his feet, and support him, on the way back to the house and then the bedroom, where he also helps him into a set of new, dry clothes and even towels his hair for him.

When Bruce finally looks up, right at that precious moment when he seems to be himself and about to say something, the doorbell’s ring from downstairs comes to ruin this one chance. He glances at the door, and then back at Alfred, who simply shrugs and says, “Maybe miss Gordon. I’ll be back in a minute, sir.”

The door, once he answers it, reveals a surprise.

“Miss Diana!”

She stands at the doorstep, under a purple umbrella, dressed in dark blue jeans, a white top and a red leather jacket, her hair up in a ponytail. Casual, yet elegant, as always.

Alfred opens the door wide to let her in. She closes the umbrella as she steps inside and allows him to take it when he extends his hand for it. “Good evening, Alfred,” she says in her warm voice. “Forgive me for the hour.”

“Nonsense. It’s always a pleasure to have you. Is everything…?”

“Yes, no reason to worry currently, thank the Gods,” she says, folding arms over her chest. “I was just… I came by to see Bruce.”

Alfred doesn’t hold back a faint smile, but his hesitance is also obvious, and she notices. “That’s very thoughtful of you, miss.”

“How is he recovering? I suppose it won’t come as a shocker to you that he’s not particularly talkative via call or messages either.”

“He’s healing fast, thankfully. Even so, though, I… I should, perhaps, warn you. This is… not a good day for him.”

Diana looks at him calmly, and nods in understanding. “I know what day it is,” she says softly. “It is why I’m here. I suspect how he’s going to be, but I would like to see him, regardless.”

Alfred feels… grateful. Grateful for those people with the bright minds and the kind hearts Bruce had chosen as his own.

“Master Bruce is currently in his bedroom,” he says. “Would you like a cup of tea, miss? Or maybe a coffee?”

“Tea sounds perfect, Alfred,” she smiles. “Thank you.”

* * *

When Diana enters the bedroom, there is no one there, though it is evident that the room was occupied, not too long ago. Her eyebrows briefly knit in confusion as she exits the room once more, and proceeds to check Bruce’s study, which she also finds empty.

She’s ready to head downstairs to Alfred, when she notices the door of another room in the next hallway laying slightly open. She moves toward it, a cold vice gripping her heart as she realizes, once stepping inside, to whom this room used to belong to.

Diana is fairly certain that neither Bruce nor Alfred have removed anything from the original places. It’s one nice, spacy, tidy room. There is a bookcase, overstuffed with books. A stereo machine, and a shelf above it, with various CDs. The walls are decorated with posters of cars and motorcycles, both racing and civilian, as well as pictures of pretty girls (and some that combine both). The biggest poster by far, though, is one of them; the Justice League, with her posing in the middle, a big smile on her face, Bruce and Clark by her sides, Hal and Barry by their sides. There is also a poster of her by herself, in full combat gear, during a battle. Endearing as it is, it also breaks her heart a little.

The most interesting item lies on the wall above the long desk. It’s a bulletin board, occupied by clippings; pieces of papers, brochures and magazines of various sizes cover its entire surface -all of Jason’s time as Robin. Articles and pictures, of him and Batman in action. In a prominent position, however, five different photographs pose, proudly and profoundly.

One is of Jason’s fourteenth birthday, as witnessed by the candles on his red velvet birthday cake. He’s standing in the middle, face bright and happy, squeezed between Bruce, Barbara Gordon and Alfred. All of them -including Bruce, who’s hugging Jason’s shoulders tightly- are wearing colorful party hats.

Another is of him alongside Dick. They seem to be on an excursion of some kind, camping in the mountains. They both look a little awkward, albeit pleased, smiling. Jason is on a grey sweatshirt and bright red down sweater vest. Thick hair, messed up by the wind, and a rugby ball under his armpit. Dick was at a time when he’d grown longer hair, and he’s on a white sweater with some band’s logo and a black jacket, standing slightly behind Jason, in a somewhat protective stance.

The next is a selfie taken by Barbara, including Jason, Dick and herself. They’re in the kitchen of a nice apartment -probably her own- all messy, wearing aprons and covered in flour and various other ingredients of what Diana guesses is the dough on the counter behind them made of. Jason’s smirking behind her, holding up a tray of freshly baked cookies, while the one in Dick’s hands is filled with nothing but burned ones (he’s vividly grimacing, joking _huge_ discomfort).

As expected, one of them is of Jason and Alfred, taken by a third person -probably Bruce- at the manor’s main library. Apparently, Jason’s helping him clean some of the upper shelves from the dust. Alfred is climbed up at the higher steps of the ladder, faintly smiling, one brow arched, while Jason hangs upside down from the beams of the ceiling, a duster in one hand.

The last one is another selfie, taken by Jason this time. It’s just him and Bruce in the front seats of a convertible car. It’s a sunny day, and they both have sunglasses, currently placed at the top of their heads. They lean to the middle, close to each other, so that they can comfortably fit on the screen -Bruce’s hands still on the wheel. Diana stares at this one in awe, since she doesn’t believe she’s ever seen Bruce looking happier, more alive and vibrant, smiling more heartfully and spontaneously.

She forces herself to turn her attention elsewhere. Namely, at the bed of the room. Over the red covers lies Bruce, on his uninjured side, back turned to the door and to her. Diana moves carefully and sits beside him on the bed. He’s holding what appears to be a blue-covered school notebook, reading from it.

He doesn’t speak at once, even as he lays eyes on her. It takes him a few seconds. “What happened?” he rasps.

Diana calmly shakes her head, one hand shooting up to lightly rub at his shoulder. “Nothing,” she says. “Nothing happened. I felt lonely today, and I knew you’d be home due to your recovery. I just needed some company. That’s all.”

Yes. ‘_What? Nooo, I’m totally here just for myself’,_ rather than ‘_I am here for **you’**_. It’s a trick both Clark and her had tested in the past, and, at times, when Bruce was in the mood to pretend that he didn’t instantly know _exactly_ what they were doing, it had worked.

_‘I just need a friend,’_ she basically says, even though she and Bruce were always… a little more than friends. And a little less than lovers. They both knew that. They’d both made a reluctant peace with the fact.

Bruce blinks at her once, completely expressionless. Far too tired to pretend this time. He moves slowly, wincing a little in obvious pain. Diana momentarily thinks he might try to sit up, and she gets ready to prevent him from it, but instead, he simply moves to lie at his back, closing the notebook and holding it to his chest. Now that the front if it is visible, she can clearly see the word ‘Essays’ on the cover.

“I’d get him a car today,” he says, eyes closed, voice low.

Diana takes a short breath, swallowing.

“Once he’d get his license, I’d let him drive the Corvette. The red one, that he loved so much. And today, I’d take him downtown, at the Expo, to choose one on his own. He would never _ask_ for a new one, of course. He never ask for anything.” A pause. “But I’d still get him one.”

She reaches out her hand and squeezes at his arm, a lump climbing up her throat. Bruce opens his eyes and glances at her.

“He’d be getting ready for college now,” he says.

She can’t really say anything. Only nods, and hopes he knows that she understands. Not fully, of course. No. Thank Hera, she never had to endure the horror, the dread, the utter devastation of losing _a child._ But, even so… Diana knew that boy as well, and, for what is worth, she also felt enraged and devastated once she’d heard of what had happened. Not just for Bruce, but mostly for Jason. For the young, joyous, smart, full of life little boy that she knew him to be.

Time might be the best doctor, but some wounds… some wounds simply cannot be fully healed. Not ever. Maybe, in time (in a long, long time) Bruce learns to somehow live with it. The pain might become… bearable. But, harsh and unfair as it is, this tragedy will never stop haunting him, and he knows that.

Nevertheless, she also wants him to know that she feels and aches for him. That she’s _there_ for him.

He shuts his eyes again. Diana moves her grip, firm and steady, to one of his hands, knowing fully well that, normally, he wouldn’t let her do that. It’s the exhaustion, the pain, the drugs, the forced inertia and inactivity… all combined with this day. All mixed up in a bitter, twisted combination that now has him slowly drifting off.

“I want my boy back,” he murmurs quietly in the semi-darkness, already half gone.

She maintains her grip on his hand, and now that he's asleep and he can't see her anymore, she allows two tears to roll.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
